Stench.

It seemed to permeate the air.

[I love that word right now. Permeate. Wonder why I don't use it more often.]

The stench.

It lingered like a bad dream, a date gone awry, a clumsily administered first kiss. Disgusting.

He spat, as if trying to get the mere taste of it out of his mouth. Failing that, he clamped his handkerchief over his face. At least he got some respite.

But one needs two hands to type on the computer keyboard. And he only has one.

He started playing pecking away with one hand. Heck, he hated the stench. But he didn't know better. Did he?

It's all her fault, of course. She drove him to despair. He had his confessional speech all planned out already.

"Its her fault, Sirs. She made me do it. She drove me insane. I couldn't live, I couldn't breathe. She would nitpick at every single thing I did and...I just lost it."

His fingers slipped against the keys. Palm jammed against keyboard, causing a whole random set of letters to appearssssssffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

Damn it. Damn the blood.

Damn it.

Smeary. Sticky against his fingers like maple syrup. Of course it is, maple syrup. He just had pancakes this morning. And now, he's getting it all over his nice computer keyboard. Someone is going to be pissed. Oh wait. That doesn't matter anymore, does it?

"She's gone, Officers. I don't know where she's gone. She's left me."

Really?

Did he think that they were going to buy that last minute lie?

Maybe. Just maybe.

The stench only gets worse. It truly does. It permeated into his clothes, into his nostrils. He blew into the handkerchief again. Oh, heavens.

Hammering. Who the hell is hammering at 5.30a.m. in the morning. Good for nothing hooligans next door. Always thinking that they run the show. Who are they, good for nothing smokers and druggies, only relying on the dole to fund the next bottle of kill-my-liver-and-brain-cells, to make this ruckus?

"SHUT UP!" He yells, at the walls. The hammering only gets louder.

"Sir, open the door! Sir, this is the police, open the door!"

Oh, for crying out loud, its 5.30a.m. in the morning...

He ignores the loud t.v. drama from next door. He puts on his headphones and blasts Yellowcard Avenue through the earbuds.

...If I could find you now, things would get better
We could leave this town and run forever...


If only he knew where she was.

The door splintered open in a hail of woodchips. As he turns to face the front door, men in blue all holding pistols like they mean business rush into the room, yelling, telling him to get down, to raise his hands to heaven like he was going to pray to some unknown deity, they kick him in the back and wrestle him to the ground, he starts yelling too, wondering what's going on.

"Sir, you are under arrest for the first degree murder of your wife, Judy Townsend. Anything you say may, can, and will be used against you in a court of law. Blah blah blah..."

The endless droning continues. He looks around. The figures are blurry. Over in the corner of the kitchen, a policeman, most likely rookie, is puking his guts out from the stench of a week-old dead lady with a meat cleaver buried just behind her left ear. White crawling maggots have already come to roost, cleaning her out. Spring cleaning. Heh. She would like that, wouldn't she?

A sharp pain nicked his wrist from the handcuffs going on a little bit too tightly.

"Its her fault, Sirs. She made me do it. She drove me insane. I couldn't live, I couldn't breathe. She would nitpick at every single thing I did and...I just lost it."


He starts blubbering.

"Now she's gone, Officers. I don't know where she's gone. She's left me."


"'Course. You killed her, you dumb f*ck."

"No, she really did left me. She climbed out that window there..."

"You're insane."

"I am! I am! Can't you see...?"

And in between the long dark blue legs, a ginger tom cat snakes through the mess and hops onto his lap.

"Oh, you came back to me! Oh, you sweet, sweet darling, now don't you ever do that again!"

"What? You mean, she..."


"I'm talking about Puss. Who did you think I was talking about?"

"Then explain this, wise guy. Who's the dead lady in your kitchen with a cleaver in her head?"

"What?"

He looked. Dead lady. Kitchen. Cleaver. Head.

"Not a clue," he said, matter-of-factly, shrugging as he stroked Puss's head with his manacled hands. "Not a clue."